


Five Times They Almost Kissed (And One Time They Did)

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 5 Times, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Orlais, The Deep Roads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin--Varric and Bethany, through all three Acts (and some DLC).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hightown Market

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [taokan](http://taokan.tumblr.com/), one of the winners of my [2013 Follower Appreciation/Fanfiction Giveaway](http://todisturbtheuniverse.tumblr.com/post/60855606001/todisturbtheuniverses-follower-appreciation-giveaway) on Tumblr, who requested Bethany and Varric: five times they almost kissed, and one time they did. 
> 
> If you squint, you can see how this fic almost ties into [A Slash of Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/964977), with the exception of Orlais. Because Orlais.

Varric tells her it will be good practice for when she’s a noblewoman, but Bethany just feels exposed in the gleaming noon sun. Worse, she feels uncomfortably bare without her staff on her back, even if they had agreed that it was better to be without weapons in public. During the day, at least; she wouldn't dare go unarmed in Kirkwall at night. There's a street gang round every corner, and maybe she's her own weapon, but she's better with the familiar grooves of her staff beneath her fingers, digging into old callouses.

She doesn’t like Marian going off on her own, either. Sundermount is a hard journey; Bethany could have eased the way, no matter what her sister hand-waved about getting to know the new recruits.

“Cheer up, Sunshine. You’ve had a frown between your brows for a good twenty minutes. It’s not healthy.”

She glances down at Varric, smiling automatically. She has a feeling that he’s only here because Marian asked him to keep her company while she’s away, but it’s good company, nonetheless. Varric always finds a way to make her smile, and he doesn't even seem to really try.

“Her knee hasn’t been quite right since Ostagar,” Bethany confesses. Varric gestures her toward the shade; she steps out of the sun, blinking until her eyes adjust. They sit, side-by-side, on some stacked crates next to the pie vendor. The smell is tempting, even if her stomach’s in knots. “I worry.”

“Anders will take care of it if they get in a scrape,” Varric reassures, pulling off his gloves. “You worry too much. You’re supposed to be enjoying the market. Complaining about the lack of dresses that match your eyes.”

She laughs, swinging her legs a bit. “My eyes are terribly plain, Varric. I’m sure there’s a dress that matches them here somewhere.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have the imagination for a noble, m’lady.” He gestures at the pie vendor, who nods amicably back. Bethany’s mouth waters. She’s been living on what they can scrape up—the hard diet of a smuggler, always bread and cheese and fruit, all cold food—and pies have never exactly been easy to come by. Sometimes, at night, while Marian snores, she traces fingers over her ribs and plans to take in her chainmail a bit more.

“Perhaps I’ll be a new kind of noble,” she says, rearranging her tunic—for she isn't wearing chainmail today. No, today she's a simple peasant girl—one of many Fereldan refugees—who's never seen a weapon in her life. She wonders how many people believe that.

Varric looks up at her, his mouth twisting thoughtfully. It’s the look he usually has when he’s bent over stacks of paper in his room at The Hanged Man, glasses perched on his broad nose. He’s a handsome man, Varric, Bethany thinks. His eyes are the color of good whiskey, or maybe sunlight at dusk.

She gives herself a little shake and blushes, looking away. A streamer of ribbons hangs from a stall across the square, and she focuses on that. What an odd thing to think! Too poetic for her by half. He’s twice her age, anyway, or she thinks he could be. The thick stubble lining his jaw is only for those men who have aged far enough—not Carver, she remembers with a pang—but then again, he is a dwarf.

The vendor appears with two steaming pies. She reaches for her purse, knowing it costs more than they can spare, but she’ll save a bit for Mother and for Marian. They could use the cheering-up once in a while. Bethany knows what a difference a warm meal can make. Gamlen will have to go without, though, Bethany decides. He throws away enough coin on goods for himself. She'll keep the pie out of his reach.

Varric gives a subtle shake of his head and tosses a silver to the vendor. “Varric,” she protests; he holds one of the pies out, giving her no option but to take it.

“You Hawkes,” he cajoles, digging a fork into his own pie. “It’s a nice day. Don’t spoil it by being stubborn.” He smiles fondly at the set of her mouth.

“You don’t really need us for your Expedition,” Bethany accuses. Her stomach grumbles; Varric raises a knowing eyebrow. She sighs and breaks the crust of the pie, giving in. Steam scented with gravy rises up, and she inhales deeply, feeling a bit light-headed.

“Sure I do,” he says easily. “Do you think I want to be stuck with Bartrand in the Deep Roads for weeks, with no one but the hirelings for company? I could use a little sunshine down there.”

She giggles, her mouth full of pie. He does have a habit of making her forget her manners. The crust is just right, flaky on the edges and soft in the middle, running with the kind of spiced stock she hasn’t tasted in over a year. The potatoes and carrots and peas inside burst with flavor.

“Thank you,” she says, when half the pie is gone and she can’t eat another bite. Varric’s tin has been picked clean. She hasn’t been so full since Father was alive; it feels so long ago.

“My pleasure, Sunshine,” he says, tipping his head back to give her a smile.

She doesn’t feel nearly so exposed as she did when they first strolled into the market; the shade is nice on a too-hot day, and for once, she’s stopped watching for Templars. He does have that effect, doesn’t he? Varric knows how to put everyone at ease.

She hops down from the crate and holds out her hands, intending to help him down. “Shall we go look for ribbons to match my eyes?” she asks, feeling strangely full of laughter.

They’re at eye level, an unusual occurrence, and for a moment, his gaze is too intense, too sharp; she’s drawn in, a little closer than is polite, her heart thumping suddenly in her chest. He reaches out to take her offered hands. His fingers, broad with thick knuckles, are enough to dwarf hers.

She’s just thinking how Isabela would tease her if she caught them like this when there’s a gentle pressure on her hands. He jumps down. The spell broken—and feeling a little faint, as though she’s used too much magic too quickly—she flushes, unsure what just happened. What almost happened, she corrects herself.

“I think you overestimate the artistic ability of these poor merchants,” Varric says gravely, letting her hands go.

She has no response; the easy teasing of the moment before is gone, replaced by the thick longing in her chest. You’re being ridiculous, she scolds herself. He’s just being kind, and you’re acting like a fool.

She’s so busy confusing herself that she doesn’t see the compliment for what it is until later, when she’s replaying the day in her mind. She’s glad Marian isn’t there to see her smile in the dark, for all the world like some girl with a crush—not an apostate, not a smuggler, not a refugee.

She treasures the warm feeling it leaves in her chest.


	2. The Hanged Man

Varric watches Bethany watch Hawke and Isabela at the bar. Their elbows are touching, a contact that Bethany—in her moderately inebriated state—is fascinated by. “My sister,” she says, enunciating very carefully, as though afraid she’s about to slur her words together, “has a crush on a pirate.”

On cue, Hawke lets out a fierce, bright laugh, her head thrown back. Isabela chuckles along, coppery eyes half-lidded and predatory. They always are a bit of a spectacle together, but Varric, unbelievably, prefers the quiet company of Hawke's sister, her eyes sharp and watchful and her fingers clenched around her mug as though it will hold her upright.

He gets the feeling that Bethany never drank so much before coming to Kirkwall. But Kirkwall's like that, he thinks; without a mug of something waiting at the end of the day, this city will kill you.

“Not just any pirate, Sunshine,” Varric corrects. “Queen of the Eastern Seas. The sharpest blade in Llomerynn. You should hear the stories they tell about her. I've been known to repeat one or two of them myself. Not within her hearing, of course. Her ego is too well-fed as it is.”

“My sister has a crush on the best pirate,” Bethany says, turning to frown at him. “That’s what you’re saying.”

“Yes,” he sighs indulgently, looking back down at the papers spread over their table. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“There are stories about her?” Bethany asks, leaning a little closer. She’s already close, mind, her chin propped carefully on her hand. Varric gets the sense that she’s trying to read snippets from his papers. She’s not sneaky enough by far; the dwarf can see her squinting, her lips twisted in a puzzled little frown.

He’s fond of these nights at The Hanged Man. He’ll miss them when there’s a mile of stone between him and the surface. Hawke spends her time flirting ruthlessly with Rivaini; Anders frowns at his drink a lot, but occasionally someone (usually Varric) says something to make him crack a smile, however wearily; Fenris glowers at everything that moves until he’s had enough wine; Merrill falls asleep at the table long before anyone else has quieted down. She’s snoring now, across the table from Bethany, her head on folded arms.

“Isabela is the type of person who inspires a lot of stories,” he answers finally.

“They don’t have happy endings, though,” Bethany says, giving up all pretense of sneakiness and pulling one of the papers over to her. He lets her.

“Depends on your definition of happy,” he hedges.

“Varric,” she warns absently, narrowing her eyes at the page rather than him.

“What? It’s true.”

“No, not that—why in Andraste's name are you writing about me?”

Oh. She took that page. He holds out a hand, hoping she’ll hand it over, but her eyes are still scanning. “You’re an important player,” he says honestly.

She finally peeks over the top of the page. “My sister is the hero,” she rebukes severely. “I’m not important. Write me out.” She thrusts the page back at him, as though she expects him to recraft the thing right this instant.

“Write you out?” Varric laughs, but he takes the page back from her all the same. “Who would Hawke be without her mageling sister?”

“Not so loud,” Bethany implores, her eyes skittering to the corners of the bar.

“We leave tomorrow, Sunshine," he reassures. "No Templar is going to get his hands on you tonight.”

He dreads the Deep Roads, but there's relief in her eyes at the very idea. A little of his foreboding unknots and floats away. Funny, how she can do that with just a look.

“You can never be too careful,” she cautions. “Honestly, Varric. Write me out.”

“You can’t be written out,” Varric replies good-naturedly, rustling the page. “What would motivate her quest to brave the dangers of the Deep Roads? All that work for a little bit of coin? You are the fulcrum on which this story rests. Your role is vital.”

“Carver can be her motivation.” Any other younger sibling would have made those words venomous, but Bethany’s voice is small instead, her eyes downcast. “Don’t think I don’t know what she sacrifices for me. What she’s always sacrificed. D’you know—Isabela might be the best friend she’s ever had? A pirate. All because we couldn’t get too close to people, in case they found out about me. About Father.”

Moved by her misplaced guilt, Varric reaches out, covering one small hand with his. Her chin snaps up, startled by the touch. There’s always a rosy blush on her cheeks, but in the damp humidity of The Hanged Man, it’s brighter than ever. It looks nice on her, he thinks.

“Ever consider that you’re worth the sacrifice?” he asks gently.

Her eyes dart furtively away again. “She didn’t choose it,” she mutters. “It’s always just fallen to her.”

“Does she ever complain? Hawke’s not exactly known for keeping her thoughts to herself.”

The silence is punctuated by Isabela’s trilling laughter; they both glance to the bar to see Bethany’s sister grinning roguishly, too deep in her cups to be embarrassed by whatever just transpired.

“I know that,” Bethany murmurs.

Varric squeezes her hand. “You’re worth keeping safe, Sunshine.”

She looks back to him, the trace of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, her eyes suddenly dancing with a mirth that he’s more commonly seen in Hawke’s gaze. It looks nice in her brown eyes, lively and mischievous, seems to match the blush on her cheeks perfectly. He’s suddenly aware—not uncomfortably—that her hand has turned palm-up beneath his, the pads of her fingertips pressing lightly into his wrist.

“You always know just what to say,” she says, a little wonderingly, leaning slightly closer. He should step back from this, lean back in his seat and smile, break the strange spell falling like a net over them both—but this feels nothing like any drizzle of magic he’s felt before.

Hawke and Isabela choose that moment, though, to drift back from the bar. The bawdy song they’re singing together—Hawke just slightly off-key—heralds their arrival. Bethany jumps, a different guilt flashing across her face, and pulls her hand back from Varric’s. He goes back to his papers, clearing his throat, and wishes for once that he would do the dwarven thing and grow a beard.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Isabela coos, sliding in on Bethany’s left side. The girl turns, if possible, even redder. “Are we interrupting something?”

“What?” Hawke scoffs, spluttering a little as she emerges from the rim of her tankard. “What would we be interrupting, my pirate queen?”

“There’s a certain tension in the air,” Isabela tells her, propping her elbows on the table. “And for once, it’s not coming from us.”

Hawke raises her eyebrows, a threat if Varric’s ever seen one. “That’s my little sister, ‘Bela, and if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times—”

“Oh, hush,” Isabela sighs, reaching across the table to give Hawke a shove to the shoulder. She nearly overbalances, only saving herself by clutching Merrill's arm. The elf doesn't even wake. “I was only teasing. Nothing’s going on here.” She tips Varric an exaggerated wink. Varric stares grimly back. If only Isabela was coming to the Deep Roads—she’d find something slimy in her bedroll every night for this.

“Right,” Hawke says, sounding only vaguely reassured, and shoots a suspicious glance at him.

Varric sighs, pushing his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose, and feels some remorse for the way Bethany has receded again, avoiding eye contact with the lot of them.

But he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the interruption. Some things are better left alone.


	3. The Deep Roads

Bethany hates it here.

No one else is faring any better, of course. Now that the adrenaline has worn off—now that Bartrand and rock wraiths are far behind them—everyone is feeling it. The claustrophobia is visceral. If they make it out alive, Bethany knows that she’ll have nightmares for weeks. She can feel Anders’s discomfort in particular; his magic has become terribly volatile as a result. Justice flares up whenever they confront darkspawn. At this point, Bethany isn’t sure if it’s because Anders calls him or because Anders has lost the remaining thread of his self-control. The idea makes her shudder.

The Deep Roads could do that to anyone, honestly, not just a mage with a Fade spirit living inside him. Even her sister is sleeping restlessly, tossing inside her bedroll and taking longer watches than is wise.

It’s dirty down here, rank and dark, and her stomach churns constantly. The way back to the surface is long, their food supply is short, and she can never get warm anymore, not even when she recovers enough of her magic to light a fire for them all. It’s too damp down here for normal means to be effective. She and Anders trade off until there’s nothing left in them; when she looks for the weapon inside her, she's bone-dry, a creek long dead, and she wonders how long until the rest of her body follows.

Of all of them, Varric fares the best. He grows paler, it’s true; the bags under his eyes deepen; but his movements alone are not touched by sluggishness; his finger on the trigger of his crossbow is quick as ever.

“Even surface dwarves are hardier than humans,” he says with a trace of a smile. “Maybe it’s in my blood, Sunshine.”

On the seventh night, when she no longer has the strength to light a fire, they sit up on watch together. He walks to where she’s knotted tight around herself, her staff across her shivering knees, and drapes his blanket around her shoulders. It smells comfortingly of Varric, even after weeks away from the sun: ink, and parchment, and the lingering ale scent of The Hanged Men. The wave of comfort it brings her is instantaneous. If she weren't so thirsty, the burn in her sinuses would go on to become tears, but as it stands, she can't even manage a sniff.

He settles at her side, amiably allowing one end of her staff to rest on his knees. At best, now, she'll be able to hit things with it.

“It’s almost over,” he comments, his voice gravelly with disuse. None of them have talked much in a few days; it’s not worth the energy that they need to fight, to survive.

She leans against his sturdy shoulder; she’s hunched enough, slumped enough, that she can rest against him. He wraps an arm around her without hesitation. She realizes that he’s no warmer than she is. She can feel the buried trickle of her own magic, deep out of her reach, spent and unraveling inside her. She wishes she was strong enough to reach it.

She closes her eyes and tries to imagine something better than here. “We’ll be rich. Well, you weren’t exactly badly off to begin with.”

He chuckles. The sound is warm and familiar, reminds her of warm ale and honest dirt. Lowtown. He reminds her of Lowtown. But a glamorized Lowtown—that’s the way he lives. His room in The Hanged Man is the only one swept clean, the only one neat and tidy, and any casual disarray has a method beneath the madness.

It’s not Bethany's Lowtown—not a weathered shack, a drunken uncle, a grieving mother. Oh, Mother. She must be so worried. The expedition was due back long before this.

He gives her a gentle squeeze. “There’s a difference between ‘not badly off’ and ‘rich’.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ll do with your share,” she teases, letting her eyes close. She’s so tired, and he’s comfortable and safe. “Will you leave The Hanged Man?”

“Never,” he declares, as though the very thought of it offends him. “A bar like that has character.”

“And rats.”

“The rats have character, too.”

“You could get an estate,” she presses, rubbing her cold nose on his sleeve.

“What would I do with an estate?” he asks, as though he finds the idea offensive. “I’ll be too busy helping you restore yours to take on such a project.”

“It will be a lot of work, won’t it,” she sighs. “It looked terrible the last time we were there.”

“It will look beautiful when you’re through with it,” he says, a thumb gently stroking her arm. “The windows will glitter with sunlight. It will be very elegant, but colorful. Only the finest furnishings. Fires always roaring in the grates. You’ll have parties that are the talk of Hightown. Everyone will want an invitation. You’ll regale them with tales of your brave deeds in the Deep Roads.”

She laughs, the sound rusty in her throat, and lifts her chin. “I think that’s your job.”

It would be easy to take comfort here, she thinks as he turns to look at her. After all, they could die before they make it to the surface, and does she really want to die without knowing what kissing Varric is like? She imagines it would be scratchy, his stubble rubbing gently against her skin. He would know what to do, exactly what to do: how to direct the tilt of her head, how to reduce her to a quivering mess with the barest brush of his lips. He can almost do that just with ink on paper—it would be so much easier if he’d put his hands directly on her, instead of reaching her through his words.

He gives a low chuckle. The sound is close enough to raise goosebumps on her arms. “I’ll tell them about that ogre,” he says, his eyes carefully watching hers. She feels light-headed; has she forgotten how to breathe? “You’re a force to be reckoned with when you’re angry, Sunshine. It was a thing of beauty to see you kill it.”

“You think so?” she asks shyly. Against all odds, a blush rises to her cheeks. She didn’t know she still had the circulation for her body to perform such a feat.

“I know so,” he says, tipping her chin up with a broad forefinger.

She thinks that this might be it; she leans in, a surprised puff of breath on her lips; but he breaks their contact, his arm sliding from her shoulders. He wasn’t much warmer than she, but she feels strangely bereft, anyway.

“Get some sleep,” he tells her gently. Is she imagining it, or is there regret in his eyes? “I can take the rest of the watch on my own. You need the rest.”

Later, she’ll wish that she had pulled him back to her, made a last bid for life before death—but now, she crawls into her bedroll and closes her eyes, too much of a coward to ask why he turned her away.


	4. The Hunting Grounds

Varric is glad that he's had his share of practice at subtle staring, because he'd be hard-pressed to stop looking at Bethany now. And maybe Bethany wouldn't find that so problematic, but he'd bet Bianca that Hawke would give him that particularly glowery frown she's become so fond of lately, and that he hates enough to make him dream of strangling her.

Never mind that she'd barely nodded to him in greeting before turning annoyed, anxious eyes on her sister; never mind that she hasn't said a word to him since, trotting ahead of him and Tallis and pouring a furious stream of words into Hawke's ear. It's been over three years—a blink some days, a lifetime the next—but this is not the Bethany he last saw in the Deep Roads: the decaying girl drawing breath with a rattle in her lungs, whose fingers had no life in them when he squeezed them goodbye and expected it to be the very last.

No, despite the corruption in her, she's every inch the image of the girl he once knew, but she seems further away, somehow, the sunlight in her brittle and distant. Maybe if she ever looks back at him, a smile on her lips, he'll feel the full force of that warmth again.

At long last, Bethany throws up her hands and falls back, leaving her sister to walk alone. Tallis winks at Varric—and he's both unsettled by and pleased at that—and skips up to Hawke's side, filling the silence with amiable chatter.

Bethany falls in step beside Varric, her frown fierce. The Grey Warden uniform is nothing like the battered, patchwork protection she once wore. Everything matches; every piece is well-cared for; and she looks good in silver and blue. Healthy, despite the fact that she is slowly, slowly dying.

Well. Aren't they all?

He strides on quietly, keeping up with her longer paces with ease. She'll speak when she wants to speak, and it's not like they've been strangers, all this time. She writes to him more often than she writes to Hawke. He has ever letter, stashed in a box in his room. He's never told his friend that; he doesn't think she'll take it well, and since the Deep Roads, Hawke has been just a shade too brittle, as likely to splinter under added weight as she is to laugh.

Finally, she lets out a long sigh. "I'm sorry, Varric," she says ruefully, and turns a small smile on him. "My manners aren't what they used to be."

"Grey Wardens don't need manners," he replies amiably. "You're supposed to be prickly, easily angered creatures. It's tradition."

There are lines at the corners of her eyes that weren't there before, the last time he saw her, and they deepen when her smile broadens. He likes them, left there in her skin like a crow pressed a careful foot in. "That's no excuse," she admonishes.

Hawke and Tallis are examining a steaming pile of something, so they hover out of earshot (and safely upwind), Bethany leaning against the same boulder that Varric hops up to sit on. Her shoulders roll comfortably beneath the line of studded leather, supple and warmed by the sun, giving off a rich, deep scent.

"I've missed you," she says at last, her voice a soft breath, snatched away by the breeze. "Alistair and Nathaniel tell stories, but they aren't as good as yours."

There's an unwarranted flair of jealousy in his chest before it fades away. Men he's never met travel at her side, fight at her back, and what of it? He can read the way she holds herself, the way her lips twist, as well as any storyteller can: they are her comrades, and nothing more, and if they were, well, he would have no right to the punch in his gut, the longing that rises up to seize and shake him.

"I've missed you too, Sunshine," he says, laying a hand on her shoulder.

They stay there, perfectly still, while snatches of Hawke's bickering with Tallis fades in and out around them. She leans into the scant contact, and when he dares to glance at her, there's a wistful look in her brown eyes, the slightest upward tick in her full lips.

"What happened to Isabela?" she asks at last.

"They had a disagreement," Varric sighs. "Isabela's gone from Kirkwall."

"I feel sorry for her," she says ruefully, and Varric knows that she doesn't mean the pirate. "But I wish I didn't. Is that horrible of me? I know I've been distant with her, but—she reminds me of everything I wanted. Everything I can never have again." Her voice is quieter when she speaks again. "She got out of the Deep Roads alive."

"Seems like it," Varric says gently, and squeezes her shoulder, to ease the sting of his words. "But if you'd been with her these last few years, you wouldn't be so sure."

Hawke chooses that moment to toss a pile of dung at Tallis, hooting with laughter. Inwardly, Varric curses her, but he doesn't fault her for it. She's had precious little to entertain her since Isabela's sudden departure.

"I swear, she's usually morbid and mopey," he declares sarcastically, changing tack. "No fun to be around at all."

Bethany smiles up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners again. "Thank you, Varric," she says, all sincerity, and reaches up to pat him on the cheek.

He thinks it isn't fair, that this woman of all women could make him forget the weight of the crossbow on his back. She's had enough tragedy, enough pain, and every nerve in him quivers with the need to run torn by the desire to stay. He's had bad ideas before, but this is the worst one yet.

"Come on," she invites, as though sensing his fraying control. She holds out her hands for him to brace against as he jumps down. Never mind, he tells himself, and puts his gloved hands in hers. She doesn't need me looking out for her; it would be an insult to her if I tried.

After all, she's on bowing and scraping detail in Orlais, and that's truly insult enough.


	5. The Hanged Man, Reprised

She bursts into the bar and ignores the confused cheer that dies halfway up, making a beeline for the stairs. Norah opens her mouth, about to offer Hawke's custom, no doubt, before she realizes that Bethany is not Hawke. She merely gapes as Bethany trots by, the sedate jog she can keep up for hours these days if she needs to—and some days, she does need to.

The muggy scent of ale sticks cloyingly in her lungs even as the babble of noise fades down the stairwell behind her. The usual drunk is down the hallway, squatting in the corner, muttering to himself, and she can't help a fond smile. It is comforting to know that some things never change.

"Varric," she calls, already twisting the knob on his door, "do you—"

But she breaks off just as suddenly, the door propped ajar against her hip, frozen halfway into the thick, silent air of the dwarf's living quarters. She half-expected to see him seated at his long, low table, glasses slipping down the thick bridge of his nose, his eyes unfocused behind them for a moment before the jumble of blue and silver before him gave away her identity.

But his papers are neatly stacked, his books surrounding the great throne without his company. The seat is empty, and he isn't home.

She swallows the disappointment in her throat. She'd hoped to stall here, to bulk up her courage to face her sister, before beginning the dreaded walk to Hightown, but that, apparently, is not in the cards. She'll have to see Varric later.

But it wouldn't do any harm to sit here a moment, would it? She aches after the long voyage from Ansburg—after so many years in the Deep Roads, the open sea will never be the same; the salt spray turns her stomach, now—and this room, with Varric written out over every inch, draws her in with its offers of comfort.

She drifts forward, letting the door shut behind her. A few minutes, that's all, and she'll be on her way. If she's lucky, Varric will be visiting the estate, and she'll cross paths with him at the door. It's silly—this crush she's harbored for years now—but if there's one thing she's learned with the Grey Wardens, it's to indulge in the moments that she can. A warm body, a listening ear, a steaming meal: those bits of comfort are what keep her running, just a step ahead of the darkspawn that killed her brother.

She's just about to sit on that massive stone chair when she sees him.

Of course, only his boot would have been visible from the doorway. It twitches now, as though it knows she's watching, but its owner doesn't stir. Instead he sprawls, great chest steadily rising and falling, over the bed, Bianca only inches from his grasp.

She tries to remember what time it was when her ship docked; it's easy to lose track of night and day after so long underground. It had been well into the night, she decides, for there had been only moonlight for her eyes to adjust to when she emerged from the hold. With The Hanged Man so bustling, though, it couldn't be far past midnight.

They'd had a job recently, then, and Varric had only just returned. Nothing else would explain his failure to wake at someone barging into his rooms.

She settles down in the great chair—comfortable, despite all appearances to the contrary—and peers at the pages stacked neatly before her. There's a newly-pressed book off to the side, too, and she struggles between a smile and a blush when she realizes who it's about. The names had been changed only as far as necessary, and from skimming the first page, she can already see who is who: the noblewoman with a roguish past, the pirate with a jaunty smirk.

She lays down the book with a covert glance at Varric, who snores softly on. It's not like she thinks he'll _mind._ They're old friends, after all, and she's long since resigned herself to being written into these tales of his. He would probably be pleased to find her finally taking an interest in them.

Still, though, she feels as if she's trespassing, especially when she spots her name on one of the freshly-inked pages. She hesitates. Surely this isn't any different than Varric adding embellishments to her sister's diary? He'd written her that he'd done just that, but then, it's hard to know when he's being facetious in writing. She imagines his voice, sometimes, a husky honey warmth settling over her, but she doesn't know if she always gets it right.

Steeling herself, she tugs at the page. There's a weight at the opposite end, where it's sewn into the binding of a thick leather book. She clears away the pages blocking her progress and lifts the whole thing, carefully, from beneath the debris scattered over it.

 _The Carta is after Bethany_ , the first sentence on the page tells her, in Varric's cramped, neat handwriting. _Hawke, too. I didn't even see them coming. Bethany is coming from Ansburg, and Hawke wants to fight her way through a hideout that shouldn't be there with her daggers and a few sidekicks. I'm getting too old for this shit._

_No sense looking a gift bronto in the snout, though. I could stand to see some Sunshine._

She closes the journal with a soft thump. She won't read on; she doesn't need to. Instead, she settles deep into Varric's chair, getting comfortable on the worn, thick pillow beneath her rump, and lets her staff rest loosely in her grasp.

She'll stay here until he wakes, and then they'll go to Hightown, but not a moment before.


	6. The Waking Sea

"Will you miss it?"

Varric turns. Even soot-streaked, weary, with a tear or two in her immaculate armor, Bethany has managed to sneak up on him. She puts most of her weight on her left side and leans against the railing of Isabela's new ship with the rest, close beside him, her hair fluttering in the clean sea breeze. Only the faintest hint of burning wreckage remains in the air.

"Some things," Varric allows, though if he's honest, he'd say he's well and truly lost without Kirkwall. "Mostly the whiskey. And land. I don't like boats."

She gives a tired huff of laughter. "Nor do I. Where will you go?"

"Somewhere quiet," he muses. "Peaceful. You Hawkes don't know how to relax."

"It isn't our strong suit," she agrees. "Marian gets bored. You know how it is."

"Better than you, by now," he retorts, and they share a quiet chuckle, watching the fires grow smaller.

"Ansburg isn't quiet," she says at last, her eyes still fixed on the smudged horizon. "But the way there is. Hills and trees. A river. Meadows. Very inspiring."

"You could use a traveling companion, I take it?" The idea appeals to him. He's been wandering so long in Hawke's shadow; that story is growing more stale with every giggle that drifts from the bow.

"I could use a friend," she says firmly, turning at last to look at him. "Bianca is welcome along."

He's just about to say _Sure, Sunshine, I'll watch your back until Ansburg_ when she leans down and presses her soft mouth to his. Her lips are warm and tremble a little, but she stays there until he reacts, winding his fingers up in her hair and pulling her closer. Rivaini hoots from the helm—by the sound of it, she's stifling Hawke's noises of outrage—but he ignores it in favor of wiping away the soot on Bethany's cheekbone with a gentle thumb.

 _Meadows_ , he thinks when she pulls back, smiling. _I could get used to meadows._


End file.
